The Consolation of Imaginary Things

IONE & MANN is pleased to present The Consolation of Imaginary Things, a solo exhibition by Irini Bachlitzanaki (b. 1984, Athens), opening on Friday 31 May to coincide with London Gallery Weekend. The exhibition centres around a body of work, conceptually developed over a period of two years, which expands on the artist’s ongoing exploration of the cultural and personal significance of objects and material imagining. The works in The Consolation of Imaginary Things build on a continuing series of wall-based sculptures referencing design, décor and domestic interiors. Inspired by the ability of objects to elicit or illustrate associations, emotions and dynamics, Irini also explores the idea of the object as continuation of the self and its role in the structures we put in place to support it. Reinterpreting - almost theatrically - familiar forms, she looks at how the things we surround ourselves with might double as coping tools, introducing multi-sensory comfort tactics and rituals through experiments with materiality, relief sculpture and the language of diagrams and schematic representation. The Consolation of Imaginary Things is Irini’s first solo exhibition with the gallery and is accompanied by The Drawing Board, a short story written by Georgia Stephenson. The Drawing Board I’m back to the drawing board. A sleepless night has given way to another bleary morning, and promises a red- eyed afternoon sponsored by a litre of cheap coffee. The ruler slides up and across, over and around. My mechanical pencil carves up space for today’s client. I entertain boxing in, recessed shelving and bespoke radiator covers. I shuffle through samples of herringbone weave, linen-blend and printed cotton. I'm the ring girl at bullnose vs torus and I conjure worlds from the smallest of comments. “My wife likes to read.” Does my wife snatch moments at dawn, before anyone else has stirred. Abandoning my oafish snoring, sneaking silently into the study for her moment's peace. Would she slide the curtains open – although, roman blinds would be quieter – and allow herself to be held in the warmth of a lambswool throw. Does she lose herself in a novel about the loss of a child, before our youngest stirs and duties begin. Or perhaps she waits patiently all day, for her clandestine lover. Quietly yearning while stacking the dishwasher, packing school lunches. Then when the list is complete and the moon shimmers through the skylight overhead, she takes to her quarters with a favourite red to unwind in the pages of his embrace, by the warm glow of an original Edison bulb. “I’ve never seen her so happy.” My smile escapes between sips. My skin is humming, from all the caffeine in my blood, and I feel good - light. The imaginary worlds try to make me play by their rules but today I ignore them. An oven goes below a sink. The window above a fireplace. I’ll suggest to the carpet that it runs across the entire kitchen and out onto the patio. Obviously, it will scoff at me. Unhygienic and impractical. But the cats will like it. The sofa neglects its duties to the living room, to the chimney breast, to the television. Instead it will press against the glass of the only south facing window on the property and pine for the landscape. For the rush of fresh air. For its own four legs to trot, canter and break into gallop across the fields outside. I move the bathroom cabinet, a crisp reflection with prescriptions to kill, to the internal wall of a vast walk-in shower. The mirror, an infinite fog. Tablets swallowed with warm water, creams smeared on open skin. Ointments and injections and washes administered when the body is reddened, soft and willing to receive. “I’ve never seen her so well.” I account for the hot summer afternoons in the attic, and press a fan from the top drawer into her moist palm. I account for the brisk winter mornings, and slide into bed beside her, extending my arm in a measure of the most comfortable reach from which to switch on the light. I map out our life together on a sheet of A0 where our children grow and our marriage strains, stretches and ultimately deepens as our bodies decay. I hold her outside, under the willow tree where the earth cable meets its namesake, and I tell her that I have loved every second of our life here together. That no parallel universe could offer me any more than what we have here. She unfolds and reaches out to me. Holds me, us, in bent suspense. Breathes her quiet thank you ‘I’m me because of you’. The lead of my pencil snaps abruptly. Coffee rings spinning, I call it a day. ~ ‘The Drawing Board’ is a short story written by Georgia Stephenson as a companion piece for ‘The Consolation of Imaginary Things’. It reflects on the interior design process and the role of designer as emotional proxy for the individuals who will inhabit the space and coexist with its objects. In this, Stephenson explores an often invisible emotional labour, and how entertaining the needs of others can result in envy, fantasy and eventually assimilation. Her inspirations draw from Bachlitzanaki’s use of object symbols, draughtsmanship, upholstery and casting, as well as her own mother’s career in design.